He’s The Campus Sun But Only A Monster For Me Chapter 08
You’re right. Fairy tales always end with “and they got together.”.
They make it seem like a prince and princess automatically live happily ever after.
But real life isn’t like that.
Life after we got together was way more complicated than I imagined.
It wasn’t that we stopped loving each other.
It was the opposite.
We loved too hard.
It overflowed.
We both didn’t know what to do with it.
We’d been together for almost a year.
No one knew except Mia.
I was the one who said we shouldn’t go public.
Lucas went quiet for a long time, then smiled and said, “Okay.”
But I saw the light in his eyes die for a second, like someone blew out a candle.
I knew what he wanted.
He wanted to post on Instagram.
He wanted to set our photo as his profile picture.
He wanted to claim me on every social platform.
He wanted the whole world to know Beatrice Bliss was his.
He’d wanted that every single day for a year.
But he didn’t do it. Because I told him not to.
My reason was simple: I didn’t want to be talked about.
People already whispered behind our backs before we dated.
“Why’s Lucas Gray hanging out with her?”
“They’re not even from the same world.”
“She doesn’t deserve him.”
If we went public, it would only get worse.
I didn’t care what people thought.
But I was scared I’d start caring if I heard it enough.
I’d rather hide our love in our little world, safe and quiet, undisturbed.
Lucas understood my fear, so he held back.
But holding back was never his strength.
He stopped hiding.
All that possessiveness, control, and insecurity he’d masked so well
burst out once we were official, like a broken window.
Before, he checked my phone in secret.
Now he did it right in front of me.
First thing every morning, he grabbed my phone and flipped through it.
Messages, calls, photos, notes, even delivery app chats.
He flipped fast, like a routine, face blank, no expression.
But I knew how carefully he read.
Sometimes he stopped on a page, stared for ages, then asked: `
“Who’d you say goodnight to?”
“Mia.”
“Oh.”
He gave me my phone back and acted casual as he went to wash up.
But that night, he’d cling extra tight, arms wrapped around my waist, refusing to let go.
Before, he only spammed calls when he couldn’t find me.
Now he called every two hours.
Not exactly two hours-two hours and five minutes. I counted. He set a timer.
“Hello? Where are you?”
“Home. Drawing.”
“Did you eat?”
“Yeah.”
“What’d you have?”
“Tomato and egg noodles.”
“I miss you. Do you miss me?”
“I miss you too.”
Calls never lasted more than two minutes.
A few questions, then hang up.
But he called again, sharp on time, like a program.
If I answered outside, his questions got longer:
“Which street? Who with? When are you coming home? Want me to pick you up?”
He sounded normal, even smiling.
But I heard the tightness underneath, a string pulled to its limit.
The worst time was when I went grocery shopping and left my phone on silent.
In twenty minutes, he called seventeen times and sent thirty-two texts.
From “Where are you?”
to “Beatrice answer me”
to “Did something happen to you?”
to “I’m calling the cops”
to “Please”
and the last one: “I’m at the grocery store entrance.”
I walked out of the freezer aisle and saw him standing at the door.
Black lightweight jacket, wind-tousled hair, chest heaving like he’d run all the way.
When he saw me, panic still flashed in his eyes, but he smiled.
“Phone die?” He walked over, casual as commenting on the weather.
“Sorry. Silent. Didn’t hear.”
“Oh. Okay.”
He slung an arm around my shoulders and took my bags.
“I was passing by. Thought you might be here.”
I glanced at him.
The store was three miles from home. His office was the opposite way.
I didn’t call him out.
Back home, he pushed me against the entry wall and kissed me hard, long.
Like he chewed up twenty minutes of panic and fed it to me.
My lips hurt. I pushed him gently. He let go, forehead to mine, breathing hard, eyes red.
“Don’t put it on silent again,” he mumbled.
“Okay.”
He kissed me once more, then went to cook, satisfied.
I leaned against the wall, touched my burning lips, and sighed.
I didn’t know how long this could last.
It wasn’t that he was annoying.
I was scared he was hurting.
Lucas had always been relentless.
Best grades, best sports, student body president, valedictorian.
At work, he did in a year what took others three.
He was hard on himself. Hard on others.
But with me? He was always so careful.
Like holding something fragile, scared he’d break it if he squeezed too hard, scared he’d drop it if he let go.
That carefulness broke my heart.
I’d been thinking lately: When did he become like this?
Hard to trace.
The crazy parts blurred under time’s filter.
All I remembered:
Checking my phone started our second month living together.
First time he picked it up so naturally, talking while scrolling, I thought nothing of it.
Then again the next day. And the next.
It became routine, like brushing his teeth.
The two-hour calls started his third week at work.
He said he missed me between tasks, just wanted to hear my voice.
But they got more frequent, more precise, timed like clockwork.
If I didn’t answer in five rings, he called again.
If I didn’t pick up the second time, he kept calling,
until my phone died or he appeared in front of me.
Then came the wet, burning, relieved kisses.
His lips hot, hands cold, whole body trembling,
like a puppy abandoned too many times,
finally seeing its owner again but scared it wasn’t real.
Anyone would think I was the busy one with a career.
But I was just a freelancer.
My life rarely went more than a mile from home.
Farthest place: grocery store.
Most-seen people: delivery drivers.
My world was tiny as a pinprick.
I always wondered: What was Lucas so afraid of?
That someone would take me?
Who would even try?
I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror.
No makeup, hair tied back loosely, plain old home clothes, paint on my cheeks.
I’d washed my hands after drawing, hadn’t cleaned my face yet.
I looked like no one would glance at me twice on the street.
But he was convinced the whole world wanted me.
I smiled a little.
Okay. Maybe it wasn’t conviction.
Maybe his illness made him feel that way.
I dried my face and walked to the living room, looking at today’s flowers.
I finished my plant illustrations early-three days ahead of schedule.
Client loved them. Payment cleared fast.
Looking at my bank account, I suddenly wanted to do something.
I took the paper off my easel and laid down fresh watercolor paper.
Leftover paint on my palette: cobalt blue, olive green, lemon yellow.
I wet my brush and started painting.
I paused halfway, looking out the window.
April. Roses bloomed in the yard.
Old oak tree full of leaves, rustling in the wind.
When I was little, Grandma always cut the prettiest flowers,
tied them in bouquets, put them on the table or gave them to neighbors.
She said flowers weren’t meant to be seen alone.
Share happiness, and it doubles.
I put down my brush, changed clothes, took scissors to the yard.
I picked the best blooms:
pink Eden roses, orange Lady of Shalott, white Iceberg, purple Rainy Blue.
Two or three stems each, arranged nicely, wrapped in kraft paper, tied with cream ribbon.
I stared at the bouquet, rehearsing what I’d say to him.
Lucas was working late.
He texted me earlier:
“Baby, might be late tonight. Eat without me.’
It was 6:30 PM.
Forty minutes from his office without traffic, an hour plus with.
I texted back: “Okay.”
Then I started cooking.
Pepper-crusted steak, his favorite.
Mixed veggies, fresh from the fridge.
Creamy pasta-simple, but he said mine was better than any restaurant.
I wrapped the food and kept it warm in the microwave.
I sat on the couch holding the bouquet, waiting for him.
Time moved slow.
Sky turned from orange to indigo to deep black.
Only a floor lamp lit the living room, warm yellow light soft as honey water.
I set the bouquet on the coffee table and picked up a book.
But I couldn’t read a single word.
My head was full of the lines I’d practiced.
How would he react? Mad?
Think I was pulling away?
Smile and say “Okay” like always, then hurt alone?
I closed the book and leaned back.
At 10:17 PM, the lock clicked.
I opened my eyes and looked toward the door.
Lucas walked in, jacket half-off. He froze when he saw me on the couch.
“Still up?”
His voice tried to sound light, but excitement hummed under it.
“I told you not to wait for me.”
“I waited for you,” I said.
He changed shoes and walked in, setting his briefcase on the shoe cabinet.
He stopped short when he saw the bouquet on the coffee table.
He stared at the flowers, then at me.
“This… this is for me?”
His voice changed. No more forced lightness-just fragile, disbelieving, scared he was wrong.
“Yeah.”
I picked up the bouquet and handed it to him.
“I arranged them myself.”
His fingers trembled as he took it.
He held the bouquet to his chest, staring at the pink, orange, white blooms. His Adam’s apple bobbed.
“Beatrice,” he said, voice rough.
“Yeah?”
“You got me flowers?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
He set the bouquet down and suddenly leaned forward, holding my face in both hands, studying me like he’d dig answers out of my expression.
His face shifted-joy, wonder, shock, and a flicker of something small and fast: fear.
What was he scared of?
That this was a breakup bouquet?
Unbelievable. That’s how insecure he was.
I lifted my hands, covered his, and gently pulled them down.
“Sit,” I said.
“I have something to tell you.”
His pupils shrank, but he sat on the couch facing me, leaning forward like a dog ready to pounce or run.
I took a deep breath.
“Lucas, I need to say a few things. Don’t interrupt until I’m done, okay?”
His lips moved. He hesitated a long time, then nodded once.
“First,” I said, calm and steady.
“I’ve been thinking about us since we got together. It’s not bad-it’s almost too good. Some things got
overlooked.”
I looked at him. His eyes were already pink at the corners.
“You give up too much for me.
College, moving home, keeping us secret, no Instagram posts, no telling anyone.
You agreed to everything, but none of it made you happy.”
“I wasn’t unhappy,” he said immediately.
“You promised not to interrupt,” I said.
He pressed his lips together, eyes red, but stayed quiet.
“I know you did it willingly.
But you’ve always fought to be the best at everything.
You’re not the kind of person who backs down.
Yet for me, you step back again and again.”
His fingers curled into the couch cushion.
“All the calls, the phone checks… all that control.
I’m not saying it’s wrong.
I just want to know what you need. What makes you feel safe?”
“Who are you scared I’ll be taken by?
I never go more than a mile from home.
The people I see most are delivery drivers,” I said softly, gently.
He didn’t answer, but his whole body trembled.
“Do you think I’m disgusted by you?”
he asked, voice shaking.
He couldn’t hold it anymore. He knelt on the couch and pulled me into his hug, face buried in my
His body shook. His breath came fast and hot, burning my collarbone.
“I don’t wanna hear it,” he mumbled, thick with tears.
“You sound like you’re gonna break up with me.”
“I’m not breaking up with you.
“You first said we’re good, then said we have problems.
That’s how breakups start,” he said, looking up at me.
Eyes red as a rabbit’s, tears on his lashes, pitiful.
“Are you annoyed by me? Don’t you want me anymore?”
Before I could answer, he smiled.
That smile I’d seen so many times, first born in his notebook pages.
Self-mocking, broken, crazed-mouth lifted, no joy in his eyes.
“Of course,” he whispered to himself.
“Too close, and you get tired of someone.’
neck.
I froze.
That was his real thought, hidden for a year, slipping out by accident.
Looking at his wet, red, forced smile, my throat burned.
I lifted my hands, squeezed his cheeks hard, kneading them like dough.
His face squished, lips puckered, little canine tooth sticking out, like a golden retriever being messed with.
He froze, smile gone.
“Lucas, listen to me,” I said, squeezing his face firmly.
“First: You can check my phone anytime you want.
You already installed that monitoring app anyway.”
His eyes widened.
“Second: Cut the calls down to once or twice a day.
We see each other every night. No need to check every two hours.”
His fingers trembled.
“Third: If you really feel unsafe, we’ll go public.
I’ll post about you anywhere.
Set your picture as my icon.
Let the whole world know Lucas Gray is my boyfriend.”
His eyes lit up.
“Fourth: I barely go out.
If I do, I’ll tell you exactly where, who with, when I’ll be back.
No exceptions.”
“So,” I let go of his cheeks and held his face softly,
brushing away tears at the corner of his eyes.
“Can you try to trust me a little?”
Tears finally spilled over.
Silent, heavy, rolling down his pretty face, between my fingers.
He bit his lower lip so hard, his fang left a white mark.
He spoke in a rough, barely audible voice:
“You don’t understand… I can’t… control it.”
“I know it’s wrong when I check your phone.
But I have to see it to feel okay.”
“When I call you, I know you’re safe.
But if you don’t pick up, I think—
did something happen?
Do you not wanna talk to me?
Are you…”
His voice faded to a breath.
“…leaving me.”
I pressed his head to my shoulder.
“I know,” I said, running my fingers through his hair, slow and soft.
Lucas’s parents both cheated on each other.
He rarely talked about it.
But I knew he hadn’t truly trusted anyone since he was fifteen-maybe earlier.
His parents’ marriage looked perfect, a golden couple, everyone said they were meant to be.
Behind closed doors, it was all a lie.
He grew up surrounded by fake perfection.
He didn’t believe in anything.
Not even me.
Not even himself.
But he craved perfect, forever, unbreakable love more than anything.
So he clung, controlled, used every way to prove I was real, mine, loyal.
He never wanted freedom.
He wanted a lock.
One that would never open.
I sighed.
“What can I do to make you feel safe?” I asked.
“Tell me. Anything.”
He stayed quiet a long time.
I thought he’d fallen asleep on my shoulder.
Then his voice came, low, wet, burning, like fire wrapped in water.
“Lock us together,” he said.
“Forever. No way out.
I looked at him. His lashes were still wet, but light had returned to his eyes.
I said, “I can do that.”
I pulled my hand from his side and stood up, walking toward the bedroom.
He chased after me and grabbed my wrist.
“Are you mad?”
he trembled.
“Pretend I didn’t say that. I didn’t mean to push you-
I turned around, laughing softly at the red-eyed, red-nosed man looking like a soaked puppy.
“I’m getting my ID card,” I said.
He went completely still.
Not joy, not relief.
Something deeper-like a drowning man pulled from black water after too long.
No cheer. Just empty, blank shock.
“…What?”
“ID card,” I repeated.
“You said lock us together. We’re getting married.”
He froze like a statue.
Only his eyes moved-pretty dark orbs, emotions crashing like a storm.
Disbelief, ecstasy, terror, hope… all piling up until they turned into shining, wet light.
“But we can’t just rush into marriage…”
he said, voice raw.
“We haven’t gotten engaged, no party, no meeting parents, no-”
He listed everything he thought he was supposed to do, clinging like a drowning man.
“Lucas,” I cut him off.
He went quiet, staring at me.
I smiled, raising my eyebrow.
“Are we doing this or not?” I asked.
He stared into my eyes for what felt like forever.
I thought he’d fall into another panic attack.
Then he said one word.
“Yes.”
He said it soft and heavy.
Light as a sigh, heavy as a promise.
His eyes turned red again, lips trembling.
But this smile was different.
No bitter self-mockery, no forced sweetness.
Truly, from his soul, bright as the sun.
His fang glinted under the bright lights.
He pulled me hard into his chest, squeezing like he’d crush me into his bones.
His lips pressed to my ear, voice thick with tears and laughter, off-key and raw.
“Beatrice, you’re mine forever,” he said.
“You can’t run.”
I pressed my face into his chest, listening to his heart pound like a drum.
So loud.
Just like him-loud and messy, from six to twenty-three,
and probably for decades more.
I smiled into his chest and closed my eyes.
I never planned to run.
I’ve been right here with you since we were six.
Moonlight broke through the clouds outside, spilling over the rooftops.
Oak leaves rustled in the night wind, like whispers.
The balcony we’d climbed over since we were kids lay quiet tonight.
No more climbing over.
We were already right where we belonged.
